Patience
by flailingmuse
Summary: Sherlock's never been one to enjoy waiting around.


**I'll do my note at the bottom. For now enjoy this. I wanted my first foray here to be slash really, and that was my intent when I started this but it didn't want to go there. So have a bored Sherlock being bored in a waiting room without even a skull to talk to.**

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><p>He'd never liked waiting for things, really. He'd never quite gotten the hang of waiting around for people to do something, think something, say something. The world moved so much faster for him that letting time slip past grew more intolerable the longer the waiting went on for. So how he found himself waiting now, voluntarily, he didn't know.<p>

Sherlock drummed his fingers agitatedly on the fading red leather of the chair he sat in. He'd already counted the ceiling tiles – four hundred and thirty seven, nineteen of which had a similar yellow stain on and one of which was going to break soon if they didn't clear that dead pigeon out from above it. He'd examined the whorls in the floorboards – too many and too intertwined to count them but they needed cleaning and judging by the heel marks at the desk that particular receptionist had been having a little too much fun after hours.

Why had he agreed to this? He never agreed to do things for others. He did them, certainly, but never agreed to. He chose to. He forced himself into situations, almost drew the scenarios to him like a black hole of interesting crimes. But now he was waiting. Waiting in a bloody reception area for John to finish talking to whatever friend he'd gone to visit.

He might be able to help us in the future, John had said, what if there's ever a time when this kind of business is involved? The kind of business involved was never mentioned. Sherlock didn't entirely care. If he ever needed help – perish the thought – he'd find it for himself, he didn't need it prepared like a school lunch.

He scratched at a loose thread, working it free with his fingers. The colour looked good paired with his skin, pale as it was. He couldn't wear crimson though, not with the way he looked. Too many references to a certain classic novel by Lestrade and the rest of the imbecilic gang. It had happened once and he didn't care for it to happen again. They already had enough reasons to dislike him and mock him. Not that he cared what they thought, of course, because he didn't, not one jot.

Alright, so the constant jibes and Donovan refusing to call him anything but freak or variations thereof ninety percent of the time was a little irritating. And maybe the intrusions into his house like a pull on the leash the police thought they had around his neck did get on his nerves occasionally. Occasionally.

Oh, what was he doing thinking about this? He sighed, ground his teeth and shifted in the chair. He'd initially wanted to head up to the top floor with John to see this 'friend'. John had pointed out that he hadn't see said friend in a long time and introducing him to his socially unbalanced and frankly quite rude flatmate might not be the best idea. So here he was.

Waiting.

He glanced at his watch, then his phone, then the clock on the wall. All the times were slightly different and, after having waited for half an hour, that was enough to irk him. His phone would be the most accurate, so he set them from that. His watch tweaked by a minute and ten seconds. The clock on the wall taken down, much to the receptionists dismay, and tweaked by three minutes. This done, Sherlock settled back into his chair to wait. He drummed his fingers, pulled at the loose thread and tapped his feet.

_If he doesn't appear in the next five minutes I'm going up_, he thought, _damn his friend. _Just as the notion settled into a resolve, the lift over in the corner dinged. The doors slid open smoothly to reveal one John Watson, looking slightly harassed and more than a little peeved. Sherlock stood quickly, immediately ready to leave.

"Oh god was that ever a bad idea," John groaned the second they left the building. "And he was the one who invited me! How did I forget he was such a colossal arse?"

"I take it the meeting did _not_ go well?" Sherlock said. He shoved his hands into his pockets and relished the speed they walked at. All the human traffic, while annoying, provided plenty of interest and mental stimulation. His brain felt refreshed just thinking about all the lives passing him by that he could pick apart given five minutes and a cursory glance.

"It was a disaster," John rubbed his forehead. "I think he basically wanted to rub in my face how well he'd done for himself on the pretext of realising I was in the city and not doing very much."

"So he's one of _those_ people," Sherlock muttered. "I should have guessed as much. Balding was he, with a bad comb-over and a ridiculously expensive silk tie?"

John nodded.

"And a nameplate on his desk and pens with his name on them in gold," he snickered, "They spelt it wrong though, so that's something."

Sherlock's mouth twitched in amusement.

"What else are we doing today?" John asked, looking over at his friend. Sherlock shrugged.

"Wait for something to come up, I suppose." He scowled. "I hate waiting."

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><p><strong>If any of you are already my watchers and you read this then I'm sorry. I know you're waiting for Maximum Ride fics. They most likely won't happen. Or they might. Who knows? <strong>

**Anyhow, this is my entrance into Sherlock-land. I've read a lot, followed a lot and faved a lot. My tumblr dash is full of it. I can safely say I'm a Sherlockian so HI EVERYONE!**

In other non-bold news, I love writing Sherlock's POV. It's so nice to be able to write a disdainfully clever character as I have none of my own and none of my previous fandoms had them. It very much fits my style. I hope you liked it and if there's anything wrong then for the love of god TELL ME. I'm not our lovely Sherlock, I can't tell what you think by looking at your pixels. **  
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Bye!


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